


ain't anything like the new

by hawksonfire



Series: oh, the good ol' days [2]
Category: Marvel
Genre: Awesome Clint Barton, Blood, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Deaf Clint Barton, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marvel Bingo 2019, NaNoWriMo, Pining, Protective Clint Barton, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, gunshot wound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 11:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21298862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawksonfire/pseuds/hawksonfire
Summary: Clint comes out of unconsciousness with his head on someone’s lap again. He opens his mouth to make a comment about how this is starting to become a pattern and a hand slaps over his lips, muffling the startled noise he makes. Steve’s face comes into view, close enough for Clint to make out the slivers of green in his eyes, and he brings his other hand to his lips. ‘Gotta stay quiet,’ he mouths, and Clint nods.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Steve Rogers
Series: oh, the good ol' days [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1533320
Comments: 30
Kudos: 267
Collections: Marvel Bingo 2019





	ain't anything like the new

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/gifts).

> Written for Marvel Bingo Square N1 - Hurt/Comfort. Enjoy some buff blondies, a dash of unsafe surgery, a few drops of pining, and some comforting at the end. 
> 
> also written for CB, who's not feeling all that well. I hope you feel better soon, bb, ilu. <3333

**Clint**

Clint comes out of unconsciousness with his head on someone’s lap again. He opens his mouth to make a comment about how this is starting to become a pattern and a hand slaps over his lips, muffling the startled noise he makes. Steve’s face comes into view, close enough for Clint to make out the slivers of green in his eyes, and he brings his other hand to his lips. ‘Gotta stay quiet,’ he mouths, and Clint nods. 

Steve pulls his hand away from Clint’s mouth, putting it just below his own ribcage. _[What’s happening?]_ Clint starts to sign. He has to swallow a yelp of pain when fire shoots through his {arm/shoulder} and Steve must see the pain that flashes through his face, because he winces in solidarity.

‘Mission went south,’ he mouths, ‘Dislocated shoulder for you, gunshot to the abdomen for me.’ Clint nods, takes a deep breath, pulls his shirt up to his mouth and bites down on it, then makes a fist and pops his shoulder back in. His scream is muffled, but clearly not enough because Steve’s other hand slaps over his mouth again. 

_[Sorry.]_ Clint signs, tilting his head away from Steve’s hand. Steve lets it fall, limply, to the ground and Clint’s eyes snap up, searching his face. He snaps his fingers in front of Steve’s face the sound like a gunshot in the silence, and immediately, Steve’s hand flies up and grabs his, stopping Clint from doing it again. 

‘No sound,’ Steve mouths. Clint nods and Steve releases his hand. Clint immediately goes straight for where Steve’s other hand is clamped down just below his ribcage and pries it away. Blood starts leaking out and Steve twitches, like he’s going to move again, so Clint (being careful of his still sore shoulder) pulls off his shirt, balls it up, and presses it to the wound. 

_[I can take it out but it’s going to hurt.]_ Steve goes white but nods, and Clint searches through the pockets on his belt until he finds the tweezers, needle, and thread that he needs. _[Do you need something to bite down on?]_ Steve nods sharply, and Clint deftly undoes Steve’s belt, pulling it from around his waist, folding it in half and pushing it between Steve’s teeth. 

Steve nods at him once the belt is in place and Clint grabs one of Steve’s hands, squeezes gently, and places it on his thigh, hoping Steve gets the message. Steve squeezes the hand on his thigh and nods again, and Clint gets to work. 

He pulls the now-blood covered shirt away and tucks it underneath him, then uses his index finger and thumb to stretch the edges of the ragged hole in Steve’s side. Steve’s hand clenches on his leg but when Clint looks up, Steve shakes his white face at him, telling him to just do it wordlessly. So he does. 

It takes a little digging, during which Steve’s hand in holding so tightly onto Clint’s leg that there will definitely be bruises later (Clint doesn’t mind that as much as he probably should) but he eventually finds the bullet, pulls it out with the tweezers and drops it into his pocket to be dealt with later.

Suddenly, Steve’s hand goes limp on Clint’s thigh and his head snaps up only to find Steve, mouth lax around his belt and passed out from the pain. With a silent sigh of relief, Clint starts to stitch up the wound, finishing just as Steve comes back into the world of the living. 

Clint’s hand flies to his mouth, stopping whatever question was about to come out as Steve woke up and the air is suddenly charged with a different sort of tension. They stare at each other silently, Clint’s hand on Steve’s mouth and Steve’s hand on Clint’s thigh, until Steve shifts and grimaces. The tension snaps and Clint pulls his hand away from Steve’s mouth so fast that his shoulder twinges in discomfort. 

_[Stitched you up but you’ll need Bruce to take a look at it.]_ Clint signs when Steve’s looking at him again. 

Steve nods. _[Anything happen while I was out?]_ Clint shakes his head. _[We’ve been offline for at least an hour, the team will have realized that something’s wrong and they’ll be looking for us.]_

_[Just have to sit tight, then.]_ Clint responds, and Steve nods again. Clint gets as comfortable as he can in the cramped space, leaning with his back against the wall opposite Steve and his legs crossed in front of him. Taking the opportunity to look around, Clint takes in as much information as he can about their current hiding place. 

It’s small, barely able to hold the two of them while they’re making themselves small. Their knees are touching and Steve’s heat is like a brand against Clint’s skin, leaving him fighting the urge to crawl into Steve’s lap to warm up. Stone walls and floor, uncomfortably cold under Clint’s ass. Dark, damp, and a little musty - the basic requirements for two types of room: storage closet or cell. He hopes it’s the former.

Steve’s head comes up and he motions to the door like there’s someone coming. Clint can’t hear anything, but then he’s got shit hearing to begin with and he wouldn’t be surprised if one or both of his aids has been damaged. He palms a knife and moves into a crouch in front of Steve, unsurprised by his desire to protect the injured man. 

Ever since their time in the cave stuck together, the two of them have sort of been gravitating towards each other. They sit next to each other on movie nights, more often than not choose to be paired together during training - Clint’s not really surprised that his feelings of admiration towards Captain America turned into feelings of... _ something _ for Steve Rogers. If he’s reading the signs right, the feelings are mutual, but Clint’s not sure where Steve’s at on the whole gay thing, as in he doesn’t know if Steve is or not, so he’s just going to wait and let Steve make the first move. For now.

Clint flips the knife in his hand to get a better grip and waits for the door to open, trying to prepare himself for whatever’s on the other side. His shoulder still hurts, which isn’t a surprise - dislocated shoulders are a bitch - and now that he’s taking inventory, his left knee is throbbing. Probably bruised to shit. 

The door swings open without warning and Clint gives himself a split second to adjust to the light blinding him before leaping out of his crouch and attacking. He catches a flash of red dodging out of the way and adjusts the knife’s angle so that he misses Natasha’s jugular vein. He lands on his bad shoulder and skids a few feet, groaning. “Ow,” he mutters, pushing himself up.

“You missed, ястребка,” Tasha chides. 

Clint smirks at her, reaching forward and pinching a lone red hair off her shoulder. “I don’t miss, Tash. You know that.” She scowls at him and snatches the hair away. He moves past her, back to the storage closet - spy skills on point, Barton - and crouches down in front of Steve. 

“Time to go, pal,” he says, reaching out to help Steve up. Once he’s up, Steve doesn’t seem to want to let go of him, which Clint is fine with, so he walks Steve all the way out of the compound and back to the Quinjet. 

“You and Capsicle alright?” Tony asks, clapping him on his - bad - shoulder. Clint winces.

“He got shot, I got a dislocated shoulder and a fucked knee, but it could’ve been worse.” Clint lowers himself down gingerly next to where Steve’s sitting, unsurprised when Steve’s hand finds its way to his thigh.

“Oh, really,” Tony says flatly, “How, pray tell, could that have been worse?”

“Oh, you know,” Clint responds, “We could’ve been stuck with your voice in our ear the whole time.” Tony squawks in offence but Clint ignores him, just like he ignores Tasha laughing and poking fun at Tony, in favour of brushing some of Steve’s hair out of his face. 

“Thank you,” Steve croaks, near silently.

“Always happy to play doctor,” Clint answers, winking. 

Steve snorts, then shakes his head. “Not for that. Thank you for this.” He gestures to where their thighs are pressed together, to where Steve’s slumped down enough that his head is nearly laying on Clint’s shoulder. 

“Anytime,” Clint says. Steve nods and goes to move away, but Clint puts a hand on his knee, freezing him in place. “Steve.” He waits for Steve to look at him. “I mean that. Anytime, anywhere. Almost anything. Got it?”

Steve nods, and that tension from before is back, charging the air between them. They stare at each other, Steve swaying forwards momentarily before Tony’s voice cuts between them like a whip, shattering the moment. “Well, we should be home soon, think you can last, Cap?”

“I should be able to make it,” Steve answers, tearing his eyes away from Clint. He starts to talk to Tony, voice hoarse, and Clint catches Tasha’s eye from across the jet. The corner of her mouth quirks up and she tilts her head at Tony, flipping a tiny knife on her knuckles. 

Clint suppresses a laugh and shakes his head. He taps his index finger against his thigh twice and Natasha nods. Leaning his head back and closing his eyes, Clint lets the adrenaline drain out of him. By the time he’s completely out of his mission headspace, his knee and shoulder are throbbing with a renewed vengeance and he grimaces, looking forward to the steaming hot bath he’s going to take to soothe his various hurts. 

The thigh that’s bruised with an outline of Steve’s hand is throbbing too, but in a different way. Clint doesn’t want to soothe that one. 

He really hopes that Steve makes a move soon.


End file.
